


A Bicycle Made for Two

by LyricaXXX (LyricaB)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/pseuds/LyricaXXX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <i>”What’s ‘too funny’?” Sherlock asks. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>John laughs. “It’s believed that the chair’s purpose was to make it easy to have sex with multiple partners. Everybody agrees on one-on-one usage, but not how it would benefit the king if he had multiple partners at once.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sherlock stares at the photo on the screen intently. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>John smirks at him. “Got any ideas?” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sherlock gives the photo another careful once over. “Sorry,” he says, his voice droll, “not my area.”</i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bicycle Made for Two

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
>  _Written for Come At Once, Round 6, for Obstinatrix’s original prompt ‘a bicycle made for two’, which was changed a bit by SwissMarg to ‘a bicycle built for two’. I could be wrong, but I believe the UK version of the song (which has to be the original version) is ‘bicycle _made_ for two’. (That’s what they sing on Midsomer Murders, anyway.) I’m using that version for John for obvious reasons. _
> 
> _Many thanks to the mods, SwissMarg and MistyZeo, for running Round 6. I’ve been in a really bad place recently and haven’t been writing. This challenge forced me back to the keyboard. And thanks to Obstinatrix for the prompt. I was a little intimidated by it at first, but I ended up having fun writing this._
> 
> _The chair to which John refers is real and a photo of a replica can be seen[here](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3265734/How-Dirty-Prince-Bertie-romped-way-bordellos-Paris-little-help-three-way-love-seat.html). The original chair was bought by the owners of the furniture company that originally made it when the Parisian bordello's contents were auctioned in the 1950s, and they still have it today. _
> 
> _At this point, not beta’ed and not aged (as my writing needs to be), plus I’ve never written for a 24-hour challenge before, so please forgive mistakes and roughness._

  


* * *

  
  


> Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.  
>  I’m half crazy all for the love of you.  
>  It won’t be a stylish marriage;  
>  I can’t afford a carriage.  
>  But you’ll look sweet upon the seat  
>  Of a bicycle made for two.  
> 

                                                _~Henry Dacre_

  


John can’t stop laughing. He’s trying to keep it low-key, but the comments he’s reading are just too funny. And, well, he’s a bit turned on by the pictures he’s been perusing. And by the whole idea, really. He just keeps seeing this image in his head, of a beautiful blonde man, lying back, legs hiked up in stirrups. 

And because Sherlock’s muttering as he shuttles between the bathroom and the kitchen, elbows deep in some noxious experiment, the image keeps morphing. Becoming a beautiful man with dark, curly hair and amazing, changeable eyes. And that’s a bit disconcerting, and a bit funny, too. To think of Sherlock lying back in that chair... And a bit freeing, to allow himself the fantasy. It’s been a while since he felt like fantasizing about anybody, and now, he’s got two fantasy images racing through his thoughts. Though, if he’s honest, the dark-haired one is definitely winning. 

“What is?” Sherlock, drying his hands on a tea towel that’s stained all the colours of the rainbow from previous experiments, materializes at John’s elbow. He smells faintly of chemicals and strongly of hand soap. 

“Huh?” Caught, suddenly fearful of what he might just have said out loud, John starts and bangs his knee on the leg of the desk. He clenches his fingers to stop himself from slamming the lid of the laptop closed. After all, there’s nothing on the screen that’s damning. All the damning stuff is in his imagination. “Damn it, Sherlock! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” 

“What’s ‘too funny’?” Sherlock says it with that peculiar mixture of patience and impatience that he adopts when he thinks John’s being an idiot, which is fairly often. 

John can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. And grin. “Didn’t realize I’d said it aloud.” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, expressing even more impatience.

“I was just doing some research.” John motion towards the computer. “The bloke who spoke to me in the pub last night...” 

Sherlock twitches, the same affronted expression washing momentarily across his features as when the young man had sidled up to John at the bar, laid his hands lightly on John's waist, and leaned close to whisper huskily in his ear. At the time, John hadn’t been sure whether Sherlock was annoyed that someone would dare distract John from what Sherlock had been saying, or jealous (though John’s sure that’s wishful thinking on his part) that someone was making a pass at him, or just plain surprised. 

It could have been any of those things or a combination of them. Sherlock _does_ hate to be interrupted, and though he would turn cool and disdainful if John said it aloud, Sherlock _is_ rather vainly accustomed to being the centre of attention even though he's not open to the sexual advances that sometimes follow. And if it was surprise...

Well, that’s fair. John had been surprised himself. Pleasantly so. 

John’s not unaware of his own charm and appeal, but when he’s standing next to someone who’s as punch-to-the-gut gorgeous as Sherlock, he’s accustomed to not normally being the one who’s approached first. He does all right in the long run, though. A few minutes of the sharpness of Sherlock’s tongue and his derisive wit, and most people invariably turn to John. It just isn't often that someone comes on to him first. 

John had been a bit intrigued. Still is. The man had been at least ten years younger than him and tall and pale. Blonde and more muscular than Sherlock and almost as gorgeous. If nothing else, John would have liked to turn on the charm and draw out what had made the man hone in on him first. But, of course, with Sherlock standing there, puffed up like a poisonous fish, glaring, there’d been no possibility of being charming or even following up on the man’s odd pick-up line: ‘Hey, man, want to go for a ride with me? My bicycle’s made for two.’

It was a strange come-on, but now that John understands it, or at least thinks he does, it’s too funny. And it seems he’s said it out loud again. 

“Why is it too funny?” Sherlock leans closer, trying to see the laptop screen, and the scents of warm skin and clean cotton waft over John, overpowering the previous scents of chemicals and soap. 

“It was a come-on, what he said about a ‘bicycle made for two’.” 

Sherlock gives him another of those looks. “Obviously,” he says, dry as toast. But it’s obvious Sherlock doesn’t understand. And just as obvious he’s not going to lower himself to ask for further information. 

John tells him anyway. “You know the song, ‘Daisy Bell’?” 

Sherlock’s head tilts further to the side and his forehead wrinkles. 

“Oh, come on,” John says. “Everybody knows it. It’s from the 1800s. And it was the first song sung by a synthesized computer voice. In the movie ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’.”

When Sherlock shakes his head, John says in a singsongy voice that he thinks is a pretty good imitation of HAL, the computer, “‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy, all for—’”

He stops at Sherlock’s blank expression. “Christ, Sherlock, even kids know that one.” John shakes his head, then holds up his hand. “No, wait. Don’t tell me. You’ve deleted it.” 

Sherlock shrugs and says only, “Song lyrics,” in a tone that says plainly where song lyrics lie on the scale of subjects important enough to be retained in his computer of a brain. 

“Yeah, well, the last line of this particular song is ‘You’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle made for two’. There are conflicting stories, of course, about where the lyrics come from and what they mean. But one version says the ‘bicycle made for two’ line is a reference to King Edward VII’s mistress, who was named Daisy, and a particular contraption which he had built for...let’s say...naughty purposes.” Grinning, John clicks the back button on his computer, waits for the screen to change, and with a flourish, turns the laptop so Sherlock can see the picture displayed on it. 

The photo is of a two-level contraption, painted white, gilded in gold, and upholstered in rich cream and gold brocade. The top part of the thing looks like a deliciously decadent take on a gynaecologist’s examination table, but with the addition of gold stirrups and vertical arms with handgrips for the person who’s lying down. Or maybe they're for the benefit of the person who's standing up, leaning over. The bottom level also has plush upholstery and is fronted with gold footpads, facing the upper level, for someone to stand in. 

“It was called a ‘siège d'amour’,” John offers helpfully. “And it was housed in the Hindu room of a famous Parisian brothel. Supposedly, it allowed King Edward, who was rather portly, to have sex more easily.”

Sherlock leans down over John’s shoulder, bracing one hand on the arm of John’s chair, and peers at the screen. 

The side of John’s face and his shoulder and arm are enveloped in warmth. 

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkles even further as he examines the photo on the screen. He tilts his head away from John, then back in the other direction so far that his curls brush John’s forehead, then back the other way again. A slight flush spreads from under his robe, up his neck, and across his jaw. After a moment, he clears his throat. “Hmmm. Interesting, John. But I’m still not sure why it’s funny.” 

“What’s funny is the conversation of people in various forums trying to figure out how the chair was used.” 

“It seems fairly obvious.” Sherlock points at the screen, sketching a vertical, then a horizontal line with an elegant finger. “It appears the man would stand here, and his partner would lie here.” There’s another head tilt and another clearing of the throat. Sherlock’s flush deepens to a hot slash of colour along his cheekbone.

John laughs. “Yeah, I can see that. But, supposedly, the chair’s purpose was to make it easier to have sex with multiple partners. Everybody agrees on one-on-one usage, but not how it would benefit the king if he had multiple partners at once.” 

Sherlock stares at the screen as if he’s willing the photo to reveal its secrets. 

John smirks at him. “Got any ideas?” 

Sherlock gives the photo another careful once over. “Sorry,” he says, his voice droll, “not my area.” 

He slides the laptop back to its original position facing John. But instead of standing up, he remains where he is, leaning down over John. He turns his head and meets John’s gaze. 

Later, John’s never sure which of them moves first. Maybe they lean at the same time. All he knows is that one moment, he’s sitting back, relaxed, smiling, enjoying the way Sherlock’s obviously fighting back laughter. And the next, he’s kissing Sherlock. And Sherlock’s kissing him back. With an ease and expertise that’s shocking. He’s all soft lips and insistent tongue and greedy, questing hands sliding down John’s chest. His fingers pausing to toy with John’s nipples, then slide down John’s stomach. Then whip back up to hook in John’s armpits and urge him to his feet. 

It happens so fast John doesn’t have time to hesitate, and it all feels so right, so perfect, John has no inclination to. Sherlock’s robe is untied, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world for John to slip his arms inside it and snake his arms around Sherlock’s slim waist. To press his hands to Sherlock’s back and feel the muscles tense and bunch beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt. 

John sighs and relaxes into the kiss. Sherlock tastes of toothpaste and the tea and toast they had for breakfast. It’s so wonderful to be pressed against Sherlock, wrapped in warmth and scent, tasting him. 

But Sherlock doesn’t allow John time to enjoy his warmth or the floating sense of rightness. He shifts, aligning his hips with John’s, edging carefully forward until he’s pressing his erection to John’s stomach. 

John sucks in a short, sharp breath, and the hair on his arms stands up. He flushes from the top of his skull to soles of his feet. And his cock swells up so rapidly it catches in the folds of his pants. He arches automatically towards the hard, hot length of cock pressing into him. 

Sherlock makes a soft sound of approval, deep in his throat, but John’s not sure whether it’s for his immediate aroused reaction or the brush of his knuckles across Sherlock’s erection as he reaches down to shift himself to a more comfortable position in his jeans. 

“I have some theories on how the chair might have been used. We could...”

“Experiment?” John supplies breathlessly. 

Sherlock reaches around him to push the laptop out of harm’s way before pushing John, slowly but insistently, back against the edge of the desk. 

John’s sure his brain is going to spin inside his skull. There are so many things he should say. So many things they should talk about before they do something... Something like this... Something like it seems like they’re about to do. “Sherlock...” he manages.

Sherlock pulls back, but he doesn’t let go. His hands are on John’s waist, the way the man’s hands were last night, but Sherlock’s are so much hotter. 

“I thought—” John’s first attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and he has to clear his throat. “Thought you said this wasn’t your area,” he says gruffly. 

Sherlock smiles. “I meant multiple partners aren’t my area.” 

John’s always thought Sherlock has the sweetest smile. At least, when he’s not being sarcastic or derisive. When Sherlock smiles because he’s happy or because he approves of something John has said or done, it’s nearly angelic. It has the power to melt John’s heart. And this particular smile, slow and sexy, has the power to melt John’s knees. 

Sherlock leans close and whispers, “I’d like...” He hesitates for so long that John thinks he’s forgotten what he was about to say. But then Sherlock presses his face into the crook of John’s neck and says softly, “I’d like you to be my area.” 

“But—” John forces his mind to work despite the way Sherlock’s hands are roaming up and down his back, dipping low enough to cup the cheeks of his arse. It’s not like this hasn’t been coming for a long time. For him, anyway. But for Sherlock? “What’s changed? After all this time, what—”

Sherlock puts his thumb up to John’s lips. He teases first the bump in John’s upper lip, then graces the curve of his lower lip. His gaze follows the path of his finger as if he’s fascinated. “John, if the past few years have taught me nothing else, it’s that I should strike while the proverbial iron is hot. I almost lost you to Mary. And until now, you have been healing from that, and I’ve tried to be...respectful. To give you the space you needed. But I observed how you responded to that man last night.” He gives a grin that turns into a shrug. “If I delay and you begin dating again... Well, if the past is any indication, catching you between paramours can be quite a challenge.” 

John’s so distracted by the touch of Sherlock’s thumb on his mouth that for a moment the words don’t register. And when they do, he doesn’t know whether to be charmed or outraged. “Did you just call me a slut? And _paramours_? Did you really just say ‘paramours’?” 

“‘Girlfriends’ seems rather an immature term, considering our age and experience.” Before he can ask any further questions, Sherlock leans into him, using his weight to press John hard against the edge of the desk. “And ‘paramour’ goes better with ‘siège d'amour’. Doesn’t it?” 

Sherlock rocks back long enough to hook his hands under the curve of John’s arse and give a quick lift to urge him up onto the desk, then he pushes John’s knees apart roughly and pushes in between John’s spread thighs. 

John moans as Sherlock kisses him again. There are still so many things to say, to ask... ‘Have you thought this through?’ and ‘Is this wise?’ and ‘What does this mean?’ and ‘I thought you were a virgin,’ which is a patently ridiculous thing to think, considering the expertise with which Sherlock has stripped his shirt off over his head and is opening his trousers, stripping them down his legs, taking shoes and socks with them. 

John’s cock leaps up, hard and insistent, and Sherlock pauses. He runs the tip of one finger along the underside. “I take it you have no objections...” 

“God, no,” John breathes. “Just...lots of questions—” 

The way Sherlock looks at him makes him forget not just his concerns, but all his words. John shivers, though it has more to do with the way Sherlock is looking at him than with the fact that he’s been so efficiently stripped naked in the middle of their flat. 

Sherlock steps back and strips off his robe and the ratty t-shirt underneath, then yanks open the tie of his pyjama bottoms and lets them fall. He pauses for a moment, naked and magnificent, chest rising and falling rapidly as he watches the way John is looking at him. His cock is surprisingly thick for such a slender man and gorgeous, so hard it’s curving back up his abdomen, and John runs his finger up it the way Sherlock did his. 

Sherlock shivers and smiles at him, a boyish, almost shy expression that’s totally incongruous with his erection and his confidence, and John feels a rush of warmth flood through his chest and slide down into his belly. That mix of innocence and worldliness, of shy and naughty, never fails to make his heart give a funny beat. 

Sherlock leans forward, catching John’s legs and drawing them up around his waist, sliding him closer until their erections are gently bumping against each other. He bites his bottom lip as he looks down at them, shifting just enough to set his cock swaying against John’s. 

John stares at Sherlock’s mouth, at his bottom lip where it’s gone red with the marks of his teeth. He can’t wait to see how those lips will look, flushed and swollen, from sucking his cock. 

Sherlock’s beautiful mouth curves up at the corners as if he knows what John’s thinking.  


John’s cock twitches. 

Smiling even wider, Sherlock wraps his hand around the back of John’s neck and draws him in for another kiss. Despite the dominance of the way he’s leaning over John, and the way he’s just kissed him, Sherlock is sweetly submissive, allowing John to explore him, to taste his lips and his teeth and the sinuous length of his tongue. 

Until John bites that plump bottom lip, sucks on it softly, and then Sherlock groans and surges into movement, dragging John to the edge of the desk, hard against him. He arches to thrust his cock against John’s belly, against his cock. He runs his fingers the length of John’s back, cupping his arse to pull him even tighter. Bites the curve where John’s neck meets his shoulder, soothes it with his tongue. 

Pleasure, need, strong as good whiskey and just as dizzying, shoots through John. He wants to slow down, to savour this first time. He tries to pull back, to take a breath. But he’s never been very good at going slow where Sherlock is concerned. 

Sherlock reaches between them and cups their cocks together in his hand and strokes, jerking them both off. 

And that slows John down a bit, because he has to see. Has to watch Sherlock’s hand moving on him. On them. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and leans his forehead against Sherlock’s as they both watch their cocks disappearing and reappearing in Sherlock’s fist. 

And then Sherlock changes the stroke of his hand, added in a little twist, just below the head of his cock, just a slight increase in pressure. John gasps. How does Sherlock know to do that? 

Pleasure builds, sweet and slow. Starting low and crawling up into his gut, teasing at his spine. Building as sensations swirl through him. There’s the odd feeling of being stroked on one side and being tucked into against hard heat on the other. The strength of Sherlock’s neck under his fingers, soft curls teasing his knuckles. Sherlock’s breath ghosting across his face, soft at first, then harsh and humid. Losing it’s rhythm as Sherlock’s hand moves faster. As his orgasm builds. 

There’s a quick hitch in Sherlock’s breath, and Sherlock shudders all over. He whispers, voice strangled and ragged, “John,” and he comes. 

Hot, slick liquid splashes across John’s belly and his cock and Sherlock’s hand tightens down even harder on him. And it drags John right over the edge. The rush of Sherlock’s orgasm, the bite of his own, catches him by surprise, and he grunts with the pleasure of it. He rocks hard into Sherlock’s tight fist. Clamps down on Sherlock’s forearms to give himself leverage. 

A tight little ball of ecstasy explodes from behind his balls, expanding out until his whole body is sparkling with it. Like the burst of fireworks spreading across the sky, sparks of pleasure firing at random across his nerves. Mixed colours and fire. 

Sherlock groans and shudders again as if John’s orgasm is fuelling his, as if John thrusting even harder into his hand is exciting Sherlock all over again, and another burst of liquid heat sprays across John’s skin. 

Another explosion of pleasure arcs through John’s body. His muscles lock and refuse to allow him to keep moving. John hangs there, panting, the muscles in his abdomen and his back cramped with the effort of his position, his thighs burning, as Sherlock’s movement changes. Eases. Becomes a softer stroking, bringing him down. Sherlock spreads slickness over the head of his cock. Down between their shafts. Across his balls, which are drawn up so tight they ache. 

But too soon, Sherlock’s hand, moving languidly on him, is too much, and John lets go his grip on Sherlock’s arm to reach down and still him. Sherlock’s hand is slick and sticky with come. 

John shudders as their come, mixed together, coats his fingers. 

Sherlock hums laughter against his face. Kisses John almost chastely before pulling back. “This experiment was messy,” he says, holding his hand out, away from his body, looking down at his belly, then John’s, both streaked with shiny stripes and dots of semen. But there’s no embarrassment in him, no regret. Just pure, satiated joy. 

The breath John hasn’t even been aware he was holding whooshes out. “I’ll get a cloth.” 

“No, I’ll go.” Sherlock leans in to murmur in his ear, “Perhaps we could adjourn to your bed. Wouldn’t you say it’s the right height for us to test further theories on the use of the siège d'amour?” 

John shivers as Sherlock presses kisses all along his jaw and nibbles at his earlobe. The semen on his belly is starting to go sticky, but he doesn’t care. “God, yes,” he breathes. 

Sherlock gives him a smirk as he disentangles himself from the cage of John’s arms and legs. 

As Sherlock disappears into the hall, perfect arse swaying, John can hear him singing, softly and off-key, in his extraordinary voice, the chorus of ‘Daisy Bell’.

###  
  



End file.
